by Stacy Gail
In a swift move, Grigor suddenly turned and pushed me back into the shadows under the sweeping staircase just beyond the grand salon. With a silent efficiency I admired, he exchanged his crowbar for a gun that, even in the almost-complete dark, I could see was equipped with a silencer.
Damn. Grigor had come prepared.
“Stay,” he said against my ear. Swallowing the remark that he’d clearly mistaken me for one of the dogs he’d befriended, I nodded. An instant later he pivoted away from me and disappeared out from under the staircase. No more than a second later, my heart froze in terror when a violent impact and a huff of wheezing breath reached my ears. Wildly I hoped that it was Grigor who’d surprised an enemy sneaking up on us and strained to hear anything more in the darkness.
My hope died under a wave of spine-shivering horror when Grigor stumbled back toward me, his gun dropping noisily to the marble floor.
“Pisto…pis…” The fragmented word gurgled out of Grigor’s mouth that now looked black in the dimness. The portion of my brain that wasn’t frozen in terrified shock recognized that blackness was blood staining his lips, before he stumbled into me. I semi-collapsed under his weight while one of his arms went feebly around my shoulders, and both of mine wrapped around his middle.
On his left side, my right arm was rhythmically bathed with the gushing, wet warmth of his blood.
No. Oh God, no…
“Pis…to…let,” he whispered, no more than a thready breath, looking up at me with urgent, beseeching eyes. Never had I noticed how kind Grigor’s eyes were, or how beautiful.
And then…
How empty.
The scream of rage and despair bubbling up inside me had no chance to be unleashed, as a deceptively gentle voice suddenly reached my ears.
“You might as well come on out, Dasha Vitaliev. I know you’re there.” Cloaked in shadows, Ollie Neubauer came into view, kicking Grigor’s gun away as he went. As he did, the light went on as to what Grigor was trying to tell me.
Pistolet.
The Russian word for gun.
Grigor Dmitriyev had used his very last breath of life to remind me of the gun he’d tucked in his waistband, trying even upon his death to protect me.
Thank you, Grigor. Thank you.
The young man, Ollie, tilted his head, his wide doe-like eyes trained on me. “Hi.”
I never knew I could hate someone so much.
“We’ve never been properly introduced,” Grigor’s killer went on when I didn’t respond. I was too busy for polite conversation, clutching Grigor body with one arm and trying not to look like I was frantically searching for the hem of Grigor’s jacket with my free hand. “I’m Ollie, though I’m told you already know that. It’s great to finally meet you, Dasha. I’ve been looking forward to it for a long time.”
A surge of knee-buckling relief swept through me as I at last I found the edge of Grigor’s jacket. I slid my hand underneath it as stealthily as possible...and couldn’t feel any sign of the gun. Icy panic surged, stealing the already-ragged breath from my lungs. I had seen him tuck the weapon at his back just a few frigging minutes ago. Where the hell was it?
Come on, come on…
“What? Nothing to say? How rude. And I must admit, disappointing.” Ollie lifted a hand covered in rivulets of what had to be blood, because it looked black in the dimness. A glint of metal gleamed in his grip as he showed me the bloodstained, wicked-looking Crocodile Dundee-like knife he’d clearly used on Grigor. “Considering that your brother often talks about what a Vitaliev badass his baby sister is, I thought you’d be so much… more… than this. But here you are, cowering under the stairs like any other female. Did you know I hate weak females? From my old man on, every guy I’ve ever known believed I was more woman than man, and they thought that made me weak. But you women are the weak ones, not me. I’m no female, and as far as I can tell, you’re no Vitaliev. You’re just like any other weak little bitch I’ve come across whose first instinct is to cry. Really, I’m quite crushed.”
My wildly searching fingers brushed against cold steel, and I almost burst into relieved tears.
Yes. Fucking YES.
“Still nothing? Not even a whimper of protest? Not that I’m requesting it. I hate whimpering women most of all.” He held up his other hand, blessedly empty, and took a step back. “How about this, dear? I step away with my hands up like this, as harmless as can be, and you crawl out of there on your hands and knees like the pitiful thing you are. See? I’m not so bad.”
At last I gently laid Grigor—the latest victim of not-so-bad Ollie—down on the floor, but remained kneeling at the body’s side. It was the only way to hide the gun I now had in my hand. I had to hide it, as my fingers were so slick with Grigor’s blood that I was having trouble releasing the damned safety.
I needed to buy some time.
“I could have sworn my brother gave you orders to check the perimeter and the front gate, Ollie,” I said, struggling to put my racing emotions back into lockdown, while at the same time wrestling with the gun’s safety. “Are you lost, by any chance?”
His condescending sneer vanished. Apparently he didn’t appreciate a weak little bitch questioning him. “I don’t answer to you. Get up out of there.”
“Now I’m the one who’s disappointed, Ollie. Where’s all that lovely charm you used on Knives earlier?”
“Charm? What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t say a word when Knives was talking to you.”
“Oh no, you misunderstand. I didn’t mean tonight, silly boy.” Beneath my thumb, the slick little lever finally gave way. I almost wept in relief. “‘I think you’ve got the most incredible mind I’ve ever known—a mind I’m privileged to help focus.’ Don’t you remember saying that? I do. It was just so nauseatingly sweet.”
The alarmed widening of his eyes gave me the gift of joy.
“Celestial Bodies,” he whispered, though for some reason it seemed loud in my ears. As if he were somehow screaming. “I said that at that whorehouse, Celestial Bodies.”
“It was a private club, not a whorehouse. Details are important, Ollie. Like, for instance, the details of what you did to my best friend, Konstantin. You used your pretty words to seduce him, didn’t you? And then you used that knife to mutilate him. I still can’t imagine why you’d do such a thing. All Kon wanted was nothing but the best for you.”
His face tightened, and he dropped the hands-up defenseless stance as he stepped closer. “Quit stalling and get out of there.”
“I’m not stalling. I’m waiting.”
“For what? For someone else to try and save you?”
“You can’t seem to stop yourself from being insulting, can you? Vitalievs don’t wait to be saved.”
“Then what?”
“I’m waiting for you to bring something more than a knife to a gun fight.” Slowly I rose. As I did I leveled the gun at his chest, and was relieved to find that the emotional lockdown was working. My hand was rock-steady. “My father always said that specialists like you—killers who prefer only one type of weapon—didn’t last long in our world. He made a point of never employing your kind.”
“My kind? You mean gay?”
“I mean a serial killer.” When he didn’t move, didn’t even blink, I took his stunned surprise as affirmation. “Don’t be surprised, Ollie, you’re remarkably easy to read now that I’ve got a good look at you. Who was your first kill, if I may ask? Was it your father, who was so blinded by disappointment that he made the mistake of overlooking all that murderous potential in you? Or was it your mother, for being a weak little bitch for not standing up for you when the yelling turned into screaming? Tell me. I’m genuinely curious.”
Seconds dripped by before his eyes began to crinkle. “What matters is that they went together. Don’t say I’m not a romantic.”
“Wow. You did start off with a bang.” I shifted my weight as discreetly as I could, just enough to get away from the slope of the staircase
hanging above me. “I’m not surprised. But you still wouldn’t have been good enough for my father’s Bratva.”
“Oh?” He shifted as well, inching closer and trying to get within striking range. We were both playing for time while looking for weaknesses. “Why’s that?”
“My father wanted people who got the job done no matter what, not artistic serial killers who specialize in only one weapon. And that’s what you are, aren’t you? A specialist. After all, you were stupid enough to kick Grigor’s gun away in favor of that knife you enjoy carving people up with. Am I right?”
Slowly, a corner of his mouth twisted up. “I do like knives.”
The double entendre didn’t escape me. “And they like you. But does he?”
“Knives likes me just fine.”
“I don’t know if he’d be too happy with you at the moment, Ollie. In the Vitaliev world, it’s a bad idea to throw away any weapon you can get your hands on. You’ve now left me with no choice but to teach you that lesson, once and for all.”
He hesitated for half a second, twisting in the throes of indecision on how to escape. My father would have shot his enemy there and then for the sin of being indecisive, but I was not my father. In that moment and with all the passion in my dark Vitaliev heart, I wanted Ollie to believe he was going to get out of this alive. I wanted him to have hope.
And then I wanted to crush it.
The other corner of his mouth curled, creating a beatific smile. “You’re not going to shoot me, dear.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“If you really wanted me dead, you would have pulled the trigger already.”
“I do want you dead, Ollie. For Konstantin, and now for Grigor.”
“Then why am I still here? Is it because you’re all bark and no bite? I think that might be the case, Dasha,” he said gently, taking a small step toward me. “Deep down, we both know you don’t have what it takes to take a life, but that’s okay, dear. Few people do, and women least of all. You know that, right? It’s genetic. A woman’s nature is that of a nurturer, not a stone cold killer. Inherently you’re incapable of—”
He lunged suddenly, slicing his knife toward my gun arm, whether to incapacitate it or cut the whole damn thing off, I didn’t know.
It didn’t matter.
What mattered was that I knew what I had to do.
Ollie’s movements seemed to slow down as I squeezed the trigger, just as I had done countless times in the past, aiming for the biggest part of my target. Just as I’d been taught to do since I was old enough to hold a gun so I could win the game of Kill or Be Killed.
This moment—right or wrong, good or evil—had always been my life.
The deafening sound of the gunshot in that enclosed space made my ears ring. Ollie stumbled back with the force of the bullet hitting him in the chest. Blood the color of tar in the near-darkness geysered out of his mouth, and his knife clattered to the floor. He took several uncoordinated steps back before collapsing in the middle of the cavernous foyer.
Oh, God.
Breathing so hard I verged on hyperventilating, I was on him immediately to make sure he wasn’t playing possum. When it came to survival, it was him or me, my brain hammered over and over, a mantra I’d learned from my life as Borysko Vitaliev’s daughter. It was him or me.
I had to make sure it was me.
Pinning his hands to his sides with my knees as I straddled him, I fumbled around for the edges of his shirt and yanked them apart. Through the faint light coming in through the foyer windows, I could just make out that my aim had been true.
Relief hit hard, and I sat down heavily on his body because my legs had abruptly decided to give out. But I wasn’t done with him yet. There was one last thing I had to know.
“You only have a few seconds of life left, Ollie.” Gun still in hand, I leaned over until we were almost eye-to-eye, my face hovering mere inches above his. “In these last few seconds, I wanted you to know that Konstantin truly wanted nothing but the best for you. Not Knives. Konstantin. So as you die, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me…was Knives worth the loss of your miserable little life?”
His breath gurgled wetly as he fought to make words.
I leaned closer, making sure my furious eyes stayed on his.
“You… are… a… Vitaliev.”
That wasn’t the answer I was looking for, but as his eyes became as blank and unseeing as Grigor’s, it became obvious that it was the only answer I was going to get.
“I got him, Kon.” The words came out on a dry sob, feeling sick and vindicated and all sorts of chaotic things that could very easily drive me insane if I let them. “I-I got him.”
The overwhelming need to cry hit me then, and I began to shake like a leaf. A burning knot of horrified tears choked off my breath while the tension in my chest ballooned until I was sure only screaming would be able to alleviate it.
I got him.
I definitely got him.
But killing Ollie wasn’t going to bring back Kon, or Jubilee, or Grigor, or Indigo and Andrew. So many had been lost, and for what? For fucking what?
The madness of Knives.
No more, I thought, while the heavy lump in my chest that used to be my heart grew even heavier, and the crushing ache of it made it almost impossible to breathe. This had to end.
No.
That wasn’t quite right.
Knives had to end.
My vision blurred as the pain in my face mingled with the much greater pain burrowing into my soul, and I tried desperately to hold it at bay. I didn’t have time to give in to the agony now. I wasn’t out of danger yet, and neither were the people I loved. Knives was still out there, and that deafening sound of the gunshot would bring someone to investigate.
I had to get out of there.
Even as the thought entered my head, the sound of distant automatic gunfire reached my ears, shocking my still-shallow gasps into terrified stillness.
Gunfire?
I closed my eyes, straining to listen.
Yes, that was gunfire, coming from all over the estate, front and back. All around.
There were also shouts, barely audible, as they were so far away.
But they were getting closer.
Polo.
A brilliant red light grew outside the windows, casting a hellish glow over the shadowed interior of the house. The intensity of the reddish glow was baffling, and somewhere in the back of my mind I registered that glow as flares. Exhilaration rocketed in tandem with hope, flooding strength back into my legs. With my muscles still quaking but at last responding to my brain’s directive to move, I gracelessly found my feet and took a shambling step toward the front door.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
My ragged gasp of fear was cut off by the arm clamped around my neck, even as my brother’s vicious voice whispered against my ear. “You didn’t stay on the sofa like I told you to, Dash. Why am I not surprised? I’ll take this.” His free hand closed over mine that held the gun. Desperation skyrocketed through me; if I gave up my weapon up now, I’d lose my last hope of defending myself. “C’mon, give it over. Don’t make me break your neck here and now.”
His arm squeezed, and whatever meager air that was trickling in abruptly vanished. Spots swarmed my vision from the outside in. Panic tried to rear its head, because some instinct screamed that this was what death was like. But the world was fading, fading…
“Come on.” Something yanked on my wrist and I became aware of pain…somewhere. “Jesus, fuck, you’re stubborn. I think I just broke your hand trying to get that gun away from you. Geez, you okay?”
The words came from far away, as did the pain. They meant nothing.
The world meant nothing.
I was leaving.
“Oh shit, sorry. Still choking you, aren’t I? Oops.” Suddenly air rushed into my lungs all at once, and the world began to swim back into some sort of focus. Kniv
es was holding me up, literally, one arm around my middle, the other still around my neck and shoulders in a kind of hug he’d given me countless times in the past—only this kind of hug could turn deadly in a blink of an eye. “There we go. Better, right? You’re not mad at me, are you Dash?”
I couldn’t form words, and not just because my vocal chords hadn’t recovered from the insult of being crushed. My oxygen-deprived brain could barely make sense of anything he said.
And then there was the pain.
As much as my face and head hurt, it was nothing compared to the excruciating pain in my right hand, blooming there like an ever-expanding explosion. A soundless cry escaped me and though it infuriated me, tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. Instinctively I tried reaching for my injured hand, but the moment I moved, both arms tightened crushingly around me once more in warning.
“Let’s just stay calm and not move, okay? It’s Polo, isn’t it? He’s coming.”
Thankfully his words gave me something else to focus on besides the pain. “Who…else?”
“He’s going to have a tough time getting in. I’ve got an army.”
“You had an army. Polo’s not stupid. He won’t be alone.”
There was a beat of silence. “You mean the Medvedevs. You really think all the Medvedevs would turn traitor and betray me, the head of the Vitaliev Bratva?”
Dear God, he couldn’t be serious. “You betrayed them, Knives. When your fucktoy Ollie murdered Konstantin so you could blame the Scorpeones for it, you turned them all against you.”
His arm around my neck tightened, not enough to cut off my air, but enough to make me realize he wanted to choke my statement out of existence. “My fucktoy? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Ollie.” Fear that he’d snap my neck warred with pain and fury, but in the end the truth won out over everything else. “I was at Celestial Bodies the night you tracked Grigor there and burned it down. I was only a few feet away when you and Ollie were talking by the SUV.”
“Fuck.” Though I couldn’t see him, the word was clearly pushed out through tightly clenched teeth. “Fuck.”
